


The Evolution of Victor Nikiforov

by burnt_oranges



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Character Study, Family, Friends With Benefits, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Language, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 22:11:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9259613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnt_oranges/pseuds/burnt_oranges
Summary: “I’m going to sell you to the Thailand team!” Yakov said. “Maybe they’ll be able to teach you some manners!” Yakov often liked to threaten to sell Victor to other teams, the particular team depending on Yakov’s mood, time of day, and what was vaguely on the news.Or: the becoming of Victor Nikiforov.





	1. 7, 10, 12, 14

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

7. 

 Victor had been late to join figure skating at seven years old. It had started at a roller skating birthday party in which, while all the other children were falling in clumps like tiny, badly balanced wind-up toys, Victor was fearlessly jumping over these small child obstacles even when told to stop in increasingly long-suffering tones by his mother. “Whee,” Victor cheered, weaving precariously between two children trying to pick themselves up.

Galina—Victor’s mother—was sitting with all the other mothers, who had all started smoking after the first twenty minutes of migraine-inducing music and slightly broken lighting that meant the rink would suddenly turn oddly green for three seconds before returning to its regularly scheduled programming of flashing lights. “He’s going to break something,” Mariya remarked, sipping her water. Galina strongly suspected this water was spiked.

“Or break someone else,” Olga added.

“10 rubles it’s someone else,” Ksenyia said, smacking the table.

“I bet he breaks an arm,” Mariya said quickly.

“One arm and one leg!” Anna said.

Galina rubbed her temples—why hadn’t she thought like Mariya, cigarettes were not nearly enough—and called out to Victor once again to _slow the hell down_.

Unfortunately, while Victor had been apparently attempting to break land-speed records, he had not learned how to stop. The party ended decisively in a nose bleed and the bruising of a line of innocent seven-year-olds who had all fallen like dominos. Victor kept saying, “I’m fine, let me go again!” through the wad of napkins Galina was holding against his copiously bleeding face while the other children cried and Ksenyia and Mariya shook their heads in disbelief regarding the small odds of this party not actually ending in a hospital visit.

“You know, he’s actually surprisingly good for a first-timer,” Anna commented.

“What on earth gave you that idea?” Galina said grimly, one hand still on Victor’s face and the other on the back of his head to keep him from racing off and contributing to the rink’s slip-risk.

“Why don’t you enroll him in ice skating?” Anna said. “Maybe he’ll actually stop accidentally breaking things in your house if he has another outlet.”

Galina opened her mouth to say—well, she didn’t know what she would have said because at that moment Victor had apparently taken a break from whining to engage in his other favorite hobby of eavesdropping when other people were talking about him. “I want to skate!” Victor said.

“I’ll think about it,” Galina said, switching out bloody napkins for clean ones.

#

In any case, it wasn’t true—if possible, Victor broke _more_ things in the house trying to do crazy jumps until Galina told him to practice outside.

“But it’s winter!” Victor said.

“DON’T CARE,” Galina said.

* * *

* * *

 

10.

 Victor more than made up for lost time by achieving a triple axel by the time he was ten years old. He had recently switched coaches to Yakov Feltsman, whose only volumes seemed to be YELLING and LOUDER YELLING, and even Victor could admit that he specifically inspired more of the latter than the former. Victor’s parents—his mother in particular—had begun working more in order to support Victor’s ever-increasing skating costs. Even with Victor working harder and harder toward achieving the scores that would give him an opportunity at funding, his mother stopped coming to competitions before slowly absenting herself from his practices; his mother’s previous early stage workaholism had become full-blown.

The first time Victor lost a competition—well, didn’t get gold—and his mother wasn’t there, he gave everyone who congratulated him passive smiles until he was free to be alone, on the curb, waiting for his mother to pick him up. When she arrived, almost all of the skaters and their families had already left.

“Don’t cry, Vitenka,” his mother sighed. Victor placed his hot forehead against the cool glass of the car window. “It’ll only make your eyes red and your nose run. It’s not worth it.”

“’M not crying,” Victor said, trying to wipe his face surreptitiously with his sleeve.

“Ten years old is too old for this,” she said, leisurely tapping cigarette ash out the window and cutting someone off at the same time. The sound of enraged honking made one corner of Victor’s mouth turn up. “What would your father say?”

“He’s never home, so I wouldn’t know,” Victor said, turning to smile sweetly at his mother.

Victor’s mother coughed, which Victor knew from long experience was meant to disguise a laugh.

“Should I even bother asking how it went?” his mother asked. “Normally I’m afraid you’re going to bounce out of the car.”

“I’ll do better next time,” Victor said, crossing his arms.

“See that you do,” his mother said in a terrible imitation of Yakov.

Victor laughed and then had to wipe his nose when excess snot sprayed everywhere.

#

It was Yakov’s motto too—no tears on the ice, if only for the practical reason of not sticking to the ice when one inevitably falls. It would only add insult to injury.

* * *

* * *

 

12.

“Again!” Yakov yelled.

Easy for him to say, Victor thought grimly. He’s not the one who has to do this.

It was 21:30, and he still had half an hour of practice left. Victor periodically didn’t know whether to be grateful or resigned for finally achieving funding because it had apparently turned Yakov into a training maniac on steroids. Not that Victor hadn’t repeatedly gotten into trouble for skipping school to practice at the rink instead.

Victor made it three-quarters of the way through his program before falling heavily on the ice. “Fuck,” he said quietly.

“Language, Vitya!” Yakov yelled because he had the ears of a fucking bat.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK,” Victor hollered before collapsing back onto the ice, which felt good on the back of his neck.

“I’m going to sell you to the Thailand team!” Yakov shouted. “Maybe they’ll be able to teach you some manners!” Yakov often liked to threaten to sell Victor to other teams, the particular team depending on Yakov’s mood, time of day, and what was vaguely on the news.

“Good luck to them then!” Victor yelled from his prone position on the ice.

Yakov sighed explosively. “Come get water. We’re done for today.”

Victor jerked upright. “But we’re not finished yet! I want to do it again.”

“You’re obviously not in the right state of mind to continue,” Yakov said. “Off the ice.” Victor narrowed his eyes. “ _Now_ , Victor.”

Victor glided to Yakov, head held high, before trudging to the bench to sit down and start the tedious process of unlacing his skates and wiping the ice off his blades. Victor tried not to wince when he eventually managed to wrench the boot off his foot before sliding his thin skating sock off his toes.

“Your toe is swollen,” Yakov said in a dangerous tone by Victor’s ear. Victor jumped, having thought Yakov had disappeared to the restroom.

“That’s how my toe normally looks,” Victor said, turning a bright smile on Yakov, brazening it out.

“Don’t play with me, Vitya,” Yakov said. “Is it broken?”

Victor carefully shrugged. “I think just sprained.”

Yakov sat next to Victor and gently palpated Victor’s foot while Victor gritted his teeth. Yakov set Victor’s foot down before looking Victor straight in the eye. “How many times have I told you?” Yakov yelled at full-volume. “We don’t skate on broken toes!”

“I can hear you, you know,” Victor said sulkily, rubbing his ears.

“Clearly not!” Yakov said, standing up and pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose. “What am I going to do with you, Vitya?”

“Sell me to the German team instead?” Victor suggested. “I think you’ll get more money.”

Yakov shook his head, his permanent frown deepening. “This isn’t just about short-term practice. If you keep skating on a broken toe, what do you think will happen?” Yakov didn’t give Victor time to answer before saying, “It will affect your long-term ability to succeed if you sustain a serious injury now before even reaching your prime. _Especially_ when said injury is initially easy to treat.”

“Yes, sir,” Victor said, smiling sweetly. Yakov gave him a disgusted look.

“I’m going to call your mother,” Yakov informed him. “Get dressed.”

Victor made a face.

Yakov turned to find the pay phone outside (Yakov had no belief in the future of cell phones) before stopping. “Also, I would never sell you to the Germans, they're too smart to buy such a pain in the ass.” He paused. “The Americans—now, they’re promising.” Yakov chuckled scarily before leaving Victor to the painful process of putting on his shoes.

Perhaps this enforced break wouldn’t be too bad. It would leave him more time to work on his original choreography. Which, as Victor was thinking about it, Yakov would hate. Yakov firmly believed in hiring professionals and none of this “amateur shit,” which is what he had called it the last time Victor showed him original work. Victor smirked even as he maneuvered his probably broken toe into his hole-y tennis shoe—Yakov wouldn’t know what hit him.

* * *

* * *

 

14.

 Victor at first grew his hair long because it pissed off Yakov and then continued because he liked the attention from the audience and the press. During the process of growing his hair out, he developed an expertise in hair braiding so that no one could tell exactly how long it was. The first competition where his hair definitively reached the middle of his back, he waited until it was minus thirties seconds before he needed to step out onto the ice. Then, knowing the cameras were on him, he pulled out three strategic pins so that his mass of hair tumbled down into a ridiculously luxurious ponytail. “Vitya,” Yakov groaned, rolling his eyes so hard that Victor almost told him to be careful, his face might stick that way. When Victor heard gasps from the audience, he gave a practiced angelic smile and glided onto the ice, waving in a genteel manner to the camera.

In practice, the other boys in Victor’s level had never been particularly friendly—generally being older and unhappy with being constantly outshone—but Victor’s long hair provoked additional commentary. “Frankly, your hair makes you look like a girl,” Oleg said, disdainful, and his friends laughed.

“Thank you,” Victor said, tossing his hair before completing a triple axel with a back-counter entrance. 

"It's ridiculous," Aleksey said, gesturing dismissively toward Victor's hair.

“Oh, leave him alone,” Georgi said weakly, managing to look both worshipful and tortured.

“Oleg, Aleksey, Georgi, why aren’t you practicing?” Yakov yelled. “And I saw that Vitya, your arms weren’t up!”

“You consistently under-rotate on your triple axel, which is only one of the many reasons why you always lose,” Victor said, smiling radiantly at Oleg before skating off to actually do what Yakov said; every once in a while, it never hurt to follow Yakov’s instructions just to keep him guessing. Besides, Victor had once overheard a very drunk Yakov confessing to Lilia that Victor was a horribly talented little brat in a suspiciously affectionate tone.

In truth, while Victor very much enjoyed admiring himself in the mirror, Victor would often accidentally shut the car door on his hair; his mother once actually fell over because she was laughing so hard. His hair required frequent trips to the salon, and his mother occasionally took him to the one farther away with mani-pedi services when she wanted her nails done.

It was during one of these outings that Victor and his mother were indulging in manicures when his mother told him she was getting a divorce from his father. Victor figured she had waited for an opportunity where he couldn’t a) run away, or b) ignore her. The manicurist was in the process of applying blue polish the color of the crown of roses he wanted to wear in his next competition—his middle fingernail on his right hand, to be precise—and very professionally did not say a word.

“Mother,” Victor said, staring sadly at his unfinished nails.

“We’re keeping the house,” his mother informed him. “Your father’s the one moving out.”

“That won’t take much time,” Victor mumbled.

“Your father cares about you,” his mother said, a little too forcefully.

Victor contemplated his mother’s complimentary glass of wine, which she moved further away with her free hand. His father was a quiet man with a leg injury from falling off the roof during a carpentry job when Victor was little; he had originally worked as a firefighter and had been one of those called into Chernobyl. Beyond that, Victor knew that his father liked two spoonfuls of raspberry jam in his tea, borscht, and being away from home.

Victor’s mother sighed and drew a piece of paper from her purse before passing it over to Victor. Victor’s eyes widened, having never felt two such conflicting emotions at once. “A _poodle_?” Victor whisper-gasped.

“That’s what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it?” she said. “Or were all those Internet searches, the background to our computer, and your constant begging a lie?”

“You’re trying to kill me,” Victor accused.

“A little sugar makes the medicine go down?” his mother suggested. Victor couldn’t even pretend to roll his eyes.

“A puppy,” Victor breathed, now glaring at his unfinished nails because he couldn’t jump up and down for an hour.

Victor attempted to make a habit of taking Makkachin to the rink, but Yakov shut that down quickly and concisely, which lead to Victor attempting to hide Makkachin under his sweatshirt until Makkachin became too big. The only person in agreement with Victor’s cunning agenda of sneaking Makkachin in was four-year-old Mila. “Makkachin is the cutest,” she said, doing a little jump on the ice.

Victor skated to Mila and lifted her above his head while he circled the rink. “Makkachin is the cutest!” he said jubilantly, and Mila started chanting, “Cutest, cutest!”

“Vitya, put her down,” Yakov yelled.

“Cutest,” Mila whispered into his ear one last time when he let her slide down onto the ice; she let go with one last pat of his hair, which was the other entity she was currently obsessed with, not that Victor could blame her on either count.

Victor would have liked to say he didn’t even notice his father move out, but that wasn’t true. The house did feel emptier without his father’s carpentry tools and collection of cameras. There was no one to silently make Victor tea when he arrived home from practice at 22:00. The television was never turned on anymore because neither Victor nor his mother had time to watch any programs.

“Oh, Vitenka, don’t look at me like that,” his father sighed right after he had packed the last box into his car.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Victor said, lifting his chin.

“I think I will actually miss this ridiculous hair,” his father said, tugging one silver lock in a transparent attempt to make Victor smile; his father had developed a hobby of looking at Victor’s hair and tsking over the past year. Victor turned his head to yank his hair out of his father’s fingers.

“You make it sound like I’m not seeing you again,” Victor said, crossing his arms.

“Tell me when your next competition is,” his father said. “I’ll come.”

#

He didn’t come.


	2. 16 and 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you're a gold medalist, you can pick the music.

16.

Victor was on fire—well, literally at that moment but also in a general, metaphorical way. He hardly even had time to experiment with choreography because of all the sponsorship meetings, commercials, traveling for competitions, and oh yes, practice. Victor reflected that practicing his routine with fiery batons was most likely not one of his best ideas and the least of it was the plethora of watery divots in the ice that Victor was not going to stick around long enough to explain.

Victor looked mournfully at the smoking ends of his baton; he should have known based on his limited cooking skills, but figure skating superstars could be forgiven for continuously setting off the smoke alarm—really, it wasn’t Victor’s lack of skill at all, it was his forgetfulness of the fact that he actually had anything in the oven and/or stove. He would put the pot on for soup and lo and behold, three hours of choreographing later, he found disgusting muck where soup was supposed to be and the ruined bottom of an admittedly cheap pot.

Victor examined his singed fingers, decided they would easily be hidden with fashionable gloves, and nixed the fiery baton idea for exhibitions.  Oleg walked into the restroom, skating bag slung faux-casual over his shoulder, and Victor pretended to be washing his hands, patting himself on the back for already disposing of the batons in the dumpster out back. “Hey,” Oleg said. Victor ignored him, dried his hands, and was halfway out the door when Oleg said, “You’re a hard person to get alone, Victor.”

Victor turned on the ball of his foot to look at Oleg over his shoulder, completely unable to resist looking up at Oleg through his lashes; Oleg shifted his weight, face tinted red, and Victor congratulated himself on a performance well done. “It must be your lucky day then,” Victor said, injecting a hint of dryness that went far over Oleg’s cotton-filled head. More than that, it caused Oleg to think that Victor actually wanted him to walk over and slide fingers through the ends of Victor’s hair.

“You don’t answer my texts,” Oleg said, lowering his eyelashes in a misguided attempt at being seductive before moving a step forward to loom over Victor. While Oleg was currently a whole foot taller, Victor knew it was just a matter of time before he grew, as both of his parents were tall and the doctor had told him, judging by his wrists, he better be ready to completely re-train after puberty.

Victor straightened up against the bathroom door, tucking his hair behind his shoulders. “I worry you’ll get the idea I actually want to speak to you,” Victor said, giving a close-lipped smile. One slightly alcohol-fueled, terrible hand-job at skating camp had apparently led Oleg to sexually imprint on Victor, even though Victor had certainly made it clear it was a one-time event. Well, Victor had kissed other skaters in front of Oleg, anyway.

As Oleg liked to do to the unfortunate targets of his affections, Oleg placed a hand on the door above Victor’s head. Victor grinned and let Oleg have one moment of hope before leaning backward and stepping aside as Oleg unbalanced and fell forward on the ground. “Did you forget?” Victor said innocently, stepping over him. “This door opens outward.”

Oleg groaned.

Victor had started receiving hundreds of love confessions through e-mail each day over the course of a year and a half. In person, at events, it was even worse, and all of it disgusted Yakov (”They would not love you if they knew you had destroyed my microwave with your cooking! And if they had seen the state of your room!” Victor, too, was sure that there was something proliferating in the moldy depths underneath his bed with a goal to someday eat him). Even Georgi had made a mortifying attempt at hitting on Victor, although at least he had been drunk and maybe confused by Victor’s long, admittedly glorious, hair. All the same, Victor made sure to bring it up to Georgi in a sly, coquettish manner every time Georgi appeared to be flirting with some poor soul; Victor counted it as yet another service he provided to the world.

With another Grand Prix completed—at which he won silver, not bad, but he would do better next time—Victor was set to compete at the European Figure Skating Championships, and Victor knew himself: he would get gold or destroy his body trying. At practice that night (ice freshly zamboni’d), Victor only took one break and that was mostly because Yakov had thrown a water bottle at his head before going outside to field yet another call from his divorce lawyer, even though the divorce process had started a year ago (Yakov had reluctantly joined everyone else in buying a cell phone, if only to cut down on the cost of pay phone usage).

“I thought they were done divorcing,” Mila said, frowning.

“One would think,” Victor agreed.

“Who’s going to teach me ballet now?” Mila said, stamping a small foot on the ice; Yakov had gotten all the skaters in the divorce, much to his displeasure. Victor suspected Yakov had been hoping to fob off at least Georgi on Lilia ever since Georgi’s dating angst had reached bad soap opera proportions.

In the middle of Victor’s explanation that while Yakov and Lilia were officially divorcing, everything would remain basically the same except that they didn’t share a house anymore and there would be less crying (on Yakov’s part), Yakov yelled, “Victor! Stop wasting practice time with lies!” Victor winked at Mila, who giggled, and then performed a quad loop cold. “And stop showing off!”

At the end of practice, which Oleg had spent sulking, Victor remembered to check his phone and saw that he had ten texts from Thomas, who had won bronze at the GPF. Victor truly thought he had been meeting Thomas for the first time at the GPF, but Thomas had assured him without embarrassment that he had met Victor several times before over the past few years at various competitions. The first few texts were hearts, but they quickly descended into pictures of a delicate nature--the kind that a person with less shame might have been grateful for the fact that Yakov was out of the room—except for the last one, which was “Where are you?” in French. Victor leaned forward on a bench while he replied, also in French, lifting one leg perpendicular to the ground in order to stretch, half-heartedly listening to the television. “Firefighters extinguished a dumpster fire at the local St. Petersburg ice rink,” someone on the news said. “They say it took a surprising amount of time to put out, considering the small size of the square-foot area.”

Yakov snorted as he walked back into the lobby after helping Georgi untangle himself from his new costume. “Who would be stupid enough to throw something flammable in a dumpster?” he said.

Victor shrugged.

#

“mama im taking off,” Victor texted from the plane, which was leaving in five minutes to Turin, Italy for the European Figure Skating Championships. “dont forget 2 take care of makkachin!!!” Awhile ago, once it became clear Victor was going to be spending an ungodly amount of time traveling, Victor had made his mother promise to send a picture of Makkachin each day he was gone so that 1. He could see his puppy’s large wooly face, and 2. His mother would remember that Makkachin could not actually feed herself.

Victor watched movies on the flight until his ears hurt from the cheap earbuds and then periodically wandered five rows over in order to bother Yakov, who was usually sleeping. Victor took to seeing how many tiny packets of pretzels he could stack on Yakov’s stomach before he woke up while winking at Yakov’s seatmate, who looked increasingly like he had to use the restroom but was terrified of touching Yakov.

Even through the brain-rattling landing, Victor could hear Yakov’s dulcet tones directed at his seatmate for stacking pretzels on his person while he was sleeping.

At the hotel, Victor collapsed into bed before being woken up at one in the morning by his phone. “Hope you had a safe flight!” his mother texted. “Would it kill you to actually use proper punctuation in your texts?” The next text was a picture of Makkachin sleeping in Victor’s bed, and Victor woke up completely with how much his stomach suddenly hurt with homesickness. Before flying to Turin, between sponsorship projects and specialized training at other rinks, Victor had spent a total of two months home out of the last six.

“yes it wud,” Victor sent back with at least fifteen dead emojis.

“It was not very nice of you to set up my seatmate for blame,” Yakov had sent at 23:10. Victor sent back a row of sad faces.

Of course, now that Victor was up, he couldn’t get back to sleep, and he couldn’t even blame the time difference. Victor shoved his feet into his falling-apart tennis shoes, the ones Yakov had been begging him to replace, grabbed his swimsuit and went to find the pool. Yakov would kill him if he found out Victor was unnecessarily straining his body before the competition, but Victor had to stop the terrible cycle of scrolling through photos of Makkachin somehow.

#

Victor met up with Thomas for breakfast the morning of the competition, while Yakov stared at Thomas’ back disapprovingly. Victor had long since developed an immunity to Yakov’s disapproval so when Thomas looked increasingly freaked out, Victor magnanimously switched seats with him.

“Are you  nervous?” Thomas said in French, taking a small bite of egg and looking slightly green.

“Excited,” Victor corrected, sipping tea with raspberry jam in it, the one indulgence Yakov generally allowed his skaters. “This is my first time skating to my own choreography!”

“I don’t know how you even have time to sleep,” Thomas said, shaking his head, although something jealous passed over his face before being quickly tucked away. It was an inexplicable alchemy that turned admiration into resentment--Victor had seen this on the face of many other skaters and had decided early on to ignore it, as then he would have no one to talk to except Mila, his mother, and Makkachin. Yakov and Lilia didn’t talk so much as give constant orders.

“Time travel,” Victor said cheekily, although in truth Yakov had given Victor a supply of Novo-Passit a few months ago when Victor kept coming to practice exhausted.

Thomas snorted. “That would mean you would actually have time to answer my texts.”

This was perhaps the fourth time Thomas had said something like this in the past month, and Victor had to forcibly cut himself off before making a comment about how if Thomas practiced more, perhaps Thomas would actually win the gold medal he was always talking about. Instead, Victor asked what Thomas was doing in the hours before the competition started.

“I’ve got to meet up with my parents at some point,” Thomas said, taking a delicate sip of water. “I’ll see you for practice though, yes?”

“Of course,” Victor said, flashing a smile and immediately dropping it when Thomas left to shower. Victor spent the day taking a nap and mentally rehearsing his routine; his mother finally sent a good luck text with a photo of Makkachin, and his father, of course, sent nothing.

Victor performed his free skate last, which greatly appealed to his sense of drama, while Thomas skated first. “I always hate going last,” Thomas confessed in the last ten minutes beforehand. “I can’t wait that long with how nervous I get.”

“Good luck!” Victor said, brushing a kiss against Thomas’ cheek. When Thomas didn’t say anything in return, he said, raising an eyebrow, “Shouldn't you wish me luck in return?”

“You don’t need luck,” Thomas said, smiling so his dimples showed. “You’re Victor Nikiforov!”

#

At the end of the European Figure Skating Championships, Victor was in possession of a gold medal, and the announcers and press had not been able to stop discussing Victor’s original choreography; Victor had made sure to mention this to Yakov at multiple, strategic points (once when Yakov was in the middle of taking a drink and Victor snuck up behind him to whisper it in his ear and Yakov had sprayed the American skater with tea). Victor attempted calling his mother, but it kept going to voicemail. “Mama, pick up your phone for your only child who just won a gold medal!” Victor finally said into the recording in a fit of temper before turning his phone off and seeking out Thomas instead.

“Let’s get ice cream to celebrate!” Victor said, giving Thomas an incandescent smile; at this point in his life, ice cream seemed like the height of wanting what he couldn’t have.

“I’m tired, Victor,” Thomas said, giving a weak smile. “I think I’m going to turn in.”

“I’ll come with you,” Victor said, stepping forward, his smile turning sly.

Thomas sighed. “Alone, Victor.”

“But why?” Victor said, blinking. “We won!”

“ _You_ won,” Thomas said quietly.

Victor shrugged one shoulder. “Well, yes. But silver isn’t bad.”

“You can afford to say that because you got gold,” Thomas said, his full mouth—the mouth Victor had been first attracted to—pinching.

Victor began to frown. “I can’t help that.”

“I know, you’re Victor Nikiforov,” Thomas snapped before taking a steadying breath. "Victor--" he started apologetically.

“What do you want me to do?” Victor said, straightening his back. “I wouldn't change it even if I could."

“That’s the problem,” Thomas said, shaking his head. Victor inhaled sharply at that, but then Thomas said, “I’m not being fair, I know. You can’t help being who you are.” Thomas bit his lip. “But I can’t help being who I am either.”

Victor lifted his chin. “Someone who can’t handle losing?”

Thomas winced. “I’m sorry, Victor.”

Victor crossed his arms. “I guess that’s it, then.”

“Congratulations,” Thomas said, wearing a sad smile that did not bring out his dimples, and walked out of the room, hands in his pockets.

Victor sighed and ended up at the bar with Yakov. “No drinking,” Yakov warned and then, “Hey!” as Victor stole his shot of vodka.

“Why?” Victor said, downing the shot. “The competition is over. I won.”

Yakov looked at him in an uncharacteristically speculative manner. “That French boy dumped you, hm? That didn’t last long.”

Victor didn’t dignify that with a response and raised his hand to call the bartender over, but Yakov interrupted to order Victor a Shirley temple (and then had to explain to the bartender what was in it). Victor immediately turned to look at Yakov in suspicion. “You never let me have those,” Victor accused. “Too much sugar.”

Yakov must have been very drunk by the time Victor joined him because he smirked and said, “You won, didn’t you?”

#

The next day, Victor’s mother called him back to explain that she had been summoned into work to handle a business deal that had fallen through. “I should have told you,” she said, sounding exhausted, “but they had me on a plane before I could blink. Makkachin’s with Mrs. Popova.”

“You work too hard, Mama,” Victor said, finishing his packing. Well, finished throwing his stuff in the suitcase and sitting on it to zip it.

His mother scoffed. “Thank you, Mr. Skate-Ten-Hours-A-Day.”

“I learned it from the best,” Victor told her.

When he arrived at the front desk to check out, the hotel desk clerk said, “These flowers came for you, Mr. Nikiforov,” and handed Victor a gorgeous bouquet of dyed blue roses. Victor frowned and opened the card, which said, “Congratulations from your father.”

Victor had no idea how he was going to get these flowers through security and into another country but by god, he was going to do it.

* * *

* * *

 

19.

Victor met Christophe Giacommetti for the first time when Victor was seventeen, and Chris had just made his senior debut; in that five minutes,  Evan Wilson from Canada, the silver medalist, bumped into Chris and thus managed to spill a flute of champagne on the front of Victor’s suit, which lead to Chris apologizing by mopping Victor’s crotch and then smiling in a cherubic manner before asking for an autograph.

Victor suspected Evan's apparent clumsiness had been no accident, as Evan had been making politely cutting small talk with Victor all night, but let it go because he was supposed to be making nice with sponsors. Victor was in the middle of signing Chris’ surprisingly nice stationary that he apparently carried on his person at all times when he heard Chris mumble something offensive in French about Brian’s lack of grace. Victor was surprised into a chuckle, and Chris flushed from collar to forehead until Victor said, also in French,“That's an insult to whales,” which made Chris choke on his next sip of champagne. It was, of course, the start of a beautiful friendship.

At last year’s GPF banquet, Victor won gold for the second time, and Chris, in a surprising upset to China, won bronze. “I’m going to beat you next year,” Chris said, grinning sloppily, three flutes of champagne later.

“You shouldn’t be drinking so much,” Victor said, taking a measured sip of his own champagne. “Shouldn’t you be talking to sponsors?”

Chris pouted. “You’re no fun. Where’s the fourteen-year-old Victor who skinny-dipped in Yakov’s—”

Victor calmly spilled the rest of his champagne on Chris’ lap. “Whoops,” he said flatly.

Chris slouched against the wall, pushing his pelvis forward, and gave a shark’s grin. “Maybe you should help clean me up?” he said casually before glancing at Georgi across the room, who was attempting to chat up the Japanese gold medalist while nervously scanning the room for Victor even though Victor had stopped sabotaging him months ago. Yakov had forced him to stop because he couldn't take Georgi's expression of sexual frustration through program song-choice anymore--well, Yakov hadn't said that, but Victor knew that's what he really meant when he said, "Stop or Georgi's going to have a nervous breakdown." Chris said, in French, “She is so far out of his league, I’m not sure they’re even the same species.”

“Georgi is a special snail,” Victor agreed in French.

“Where’s Oleg?” Chris said, leaning closer.

“He retired to start a bakery,” Victor said, shrugging one shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“Absolutely not,” Chris said, mouth a little o and eyes shimmering with glee. “I think I would have remembered that.”

“One can only hope his café liégeois are better than his triple axels,” Victor said dryly.

This year, after Victor won the GPF for the third time in a row, he knew that the expectation of winning had become the audience's baseline expectation of Victor—after all,  once is luck, twice is coincidence, and the third time makes a pattern. The audience was in the process of building up a tolerance, like someone who drank champagne every day, and it would take more and more for them to reach that same initial level of shock and awe. Even the press had stopped asking him how Victor felt after winning and instead asked how Victor planned to win next year. Fortunately, this was the first year he had won the World Figure Skating Championships, which had served to capsize the Figure Skating World balance as Brian Wang, the American skater, had been the gold medal favorite.

“I can’t even be upset,” Brian confessed to Victor later, dark hair slicked back and the first few buttons of his shirt undone. “It’s like being jealous of how beautiful a sunset is.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” Victor said, smiling, looking up at Brian through his lashes.

Brian’s cheeks went pink, and he laughed. “Who doesn’t?” he said.

“Victor!” Yakov called from across the room. “I have someone here who wants to meet you.”

Victor bit back a sigh and quirked an eyebrow. “Duty calls,” he said to Brian.

“Congratulations again,” Brian said, saluting him with a flute of champagne.

“And to you,” Victor said, flicking his hair over his shoulder before crossing the room to meet with yet another potential sponsor.

Because Victor had fucked up both his wrist and knee in practice for World’s, Yakov let him have two weeks to recuperate. Victor spent this time with Makkachin and the television, valiantly dry-eyed in the face of Oksana’s heart-breaking loss of her one true love, before his mother finally forced him out of the house; he meandered to the park and met Yelena, another dog-owner, who struck up conversation with him over how cute Makkachin was.

When Victor finally resumed practice, he had a new girlfriend and two years of soaps under his belt, the latter of which he regaled Yakov until Yakov started trying to tear out what little hair he had left. “You see this section of gray hair,” he said to Victor, pointing wildly at his head. “All you.”

“Victor, Victor, Victor!” Mila said, careening toward him at high speed and Victor was able to catch her, just barely.

“What have you been eating?” he asked her. “Rocks?”

Mila giggled. “Congratulations, you won gold!” she said and then proceeded to echo “gold” quieter and quieter with her hands cupped around her mouth.

“You’ve been watching too much football,” Victor told her, ridiculously charmed.

Yakov only had to look over at them before Victor and Mila quickly returned to practicing. Well, Mila practiced, and Victor glided over to the music to switch on a particular song.

“Dance party!” he cheered. “Candy Shop” played through the speakers, and Victor watched as Yakov’s face became increasingly red until Victor was sure he was going to burst a blood vessel. Victor had learned over time that anger was just another—albeit unpleasant—reaction of surprise.

Victor performed his pre-planned routine, ass-shaking included at no extra charge, until Yakov shouted, “When I said this obsession with American bubblegum pop had to stop, I didn’t mean this!”

“yakov very mad,” he texted Chris, and Chris sent back a row of frownie faces and hearts.

Victor went home to an increasingly quieter house as his mother was either at work for the busy season or sleeping; only Makkachin rushed to meet him at the door. Victor quietly made dinner and paid his father’s chemo bills as they came in; his father had too much pride for the downturn in the economic market that made carpenters presently unnecessary, which resulted in neither of them talking about the current arrangement.

“leaving tomorrow for commercial,” Victor reminded his mother, even though she was probably just in the next room; he didn’t want to disturb her if she was sleeping. In one of his rare introspective periods, at night when trying to sleep, Victor wondered if his mother had replaced her husband with work. And then, patting himself on the back for remembering, Victor texted Yelena too.

“Have fun!” Yelena sent back. Yelena never complained about how much time Victor had to spend skating or traveling, which sometimes mildly disappointed him because it would have been nice if she had missed him at least a little. Even though Victor had to admit that he didn’t miss her either, not really, although her lips really were very soft and a delightful contrast to her sharp sense of humor. Yelena didn’t quite understand his uni-dimensional, rigorous passion, and when he spent time with her, he felt like a visitor to a foreign country where people actually had the time to have favorite programs, read books (not that he was overly interested in reading, but still, the point stood), and go to clubs. Yelena’s parents had dinner as a family every night instead of every person for themselves, and they went on family trips and to the grocery store like clockwork. When Yelena asked him if he had seen the new American film, “Atonement,” he had no idea what she was talking about. “You’re like an alien,” she had laughed. “An alien I’m introducing to how humans live.”

Oleg had been good for one thing, which was teaching Victor how to pack correctly. After witnessing Victor throw all his shit in his suitcase and then sitting on top of the suitcase to close it, Oleg had said, flatly, “What the hell was that,” and Victor had shrugged and given him a goofy smile, tickled by Oleg’s previously undiscovered predilection for organization. Oleg had then carefully rolled each of Victor’s shirts like a little sleeping bag before placing each one in Victor’s suitcase like it was a small child with sure, steady hands, which was probably what had lead, in part, to the ill-advised hand-jobs—Victor reflected that Oleg’s cinnamon rolls must, at least, have phenomenal structure.

With his immaculately packed bag, Victor took the train to Moscow for the filming of a Rosinka soda commercial, which he mainly agreed to because he wanted all the soda he could carry, not that Yakov would let him keep even one six-pack. Victor imagined that Yakov kept a storage locker for all of the junk food Yakov had confiscated from skaters over the years and had probably spent the night there many times during the divorce.

“Thank you for having me, Director Petrova,” Victor said, flashing a smile. “I’m very happy to be here.”

“The pleasure of is ours,” Director Petrova said, smiling back and shaking Victor’s hand firmly. "After all, you _are_  one of the best skaters in the world."

She seems nice, Victor thought.

#

Victor began wondering if a person could die of external soda poisoning after the tenth time someone had sprayed soda on him. Director Petrova had switched out the designated soda-sprayer four times over the course of three hours with Evgeni being the newest iteration.

“Cut!” Director Petrova barked. “Evgeni, aim higher on Victor’s chest, you’re aiming too low.”

Evgeni's apparent fascination with Victor’s crotch was ruining everything, Victor thought bleakly.

Victor had changed clothes and been hosed down numerous times (again, by Evgeni—would Victor never be free of him?), and Yakov wouldn’t stop texting him to be nice. Victor texted back a soaking wet, shirtless selfie to express his displeasure before returning to what he was coming to think of as his own personal hell.

“goodbye cruel world,” Victor texted to Chris. “ill just be in moscow forever, never to compete again.”

“Y did you even take that commercial?” Chris sent back.

“free soda and yakov.”

“That was your first mistake nothings free.”

“u r,” Victor sent back with a winky face.

“I am the one true generosity,” Chris agreed. “Also Im joining the ranks of yakov and your mom your txt spk offends even me.”

Victor sent a row of kissy faces.

Victor spent the rest of the day being doused with soda and then hosed off before going back to his hotel, knowing he was going to once again be sprayed with soda again the next day. Evgeni had asked for his autograph, and Victor had left immediately after autographing his handkerchief (why did he, someone Victor’s relative age, have a handkerchief??? Victor tried not to think about it too hard) before he could ask for anything else.

Once lying in bed, Victor, of course, could not fall asleep even though he was exhausted. He kept going over his choreography in his head and then wondering if he would ever get the soda out of his beautiful hair and then thinking about the fact that he had yet another commercial to film in two weeks, although at least it would be in St. Petersburg and he wouldn’t have to travel.

Victor dropped his phone on the carpet once he realized he had automatically started looking at pictures of Makkachin as a puppy again, stuffed inside the workout sweatshirt he used to run. Makkachin was probably sleeping in Victor’s bed, wondering where Victor was but trusting Victor would return home again. Victor hoped his mother hadn’t fallen asleep on the couch again and actually made it to her bed. Victor reminded himself that these commercials, these sponsorships, were fun, and they allowed him to keep skating without worrying about finances.

At two in the morning, with four hours until his alarm, Victor finally gave up and took Novo-Passit.

#

Victor returned to St. Petersburg freshly showered and sans soda swag because he had lost the taste after wearing it constantly for two days; he was just in time to sleep for twelve hours before Yelena broke up with him through home-made blini and strawberry jam.

“I’m sorry,” she said, like she was firing him from a job. “Between exams and internships, I need to focus on school.”

Victor, possibly more than anyone, understood the value of focus, but he vaguely suspected that this was an excuse meant to keep his feelings intact. In reality, Yelena was a nice person that would go on to have a nice career with a nice family, and Victor was a less-nice person who would most likely—what? Where would he go from here? “This is probably the most enjoyable break-up I’ve ever had,” Victor confessed.

“I get to set the standard, huh,” Yelena said, resting her chin on her hand. “A questionable privilege.” She watched Victor finish eating. “More blini?”

“Just don’t tell Yakov,” Victor said automatically and then on second thought, “You should break up with me more often.”

Yelena burst into laughter.

#

Victor completed the commercial in Moscow for workout gear and then another one in New York for different workout gear before skating an exhibition to an old routine to keep his competitive skills sharp.

"How does it feel to be the favorite for gold this year?" one interviewer asked him.  

Victor found himself unable to answer. Yakov's hand tightened ominously on his shoulder. "I am grateful for everyone's good wishes," Victor said, smiling pleasantly, controlling the urge to step on Yakov's foot.

When Victor returned to practice the next day, he flubbed half of his jumps for his new program, which hadn’t happened to him in years, or at least not in such an epic ratio; even Yakov was beginning to actually approach looking worried, like a limit in calculus.

“Victor, I can’t believe you actually screwed up,” Mila whispered when Yakov was distracted tearing some junior skater a new asshole.

Victor gave a faux-shocked gasp. “Mila, where did you learn such language?”

“I learned worse from Lilia,” Mila said gleefully.

“You come from a long line of skaters who learned their curse word vocabulary at Lilia’s knee,” Victor said wistfully. He ruffled Mila’s hair and then fluffed it back into place; at nine years old, Mila still tolerated silliness from adults, but Victor knew that sooner rather than later Mila would be too cool to hang out with Uncle Victor anymore, doing her own hair for competitions and triple combinations and everything. They grew up so fast. Victor gave Mila a fish-tail braid for pre-nostalgia’s sake and took a selfie, silver braid mixed with red like ice and fire.

Yakov finally sent him home early after Victor fell especially hard on his knee. “What happened to walk it off?” Victor said through gritted teeth, skating on one foot to the rink entrance.

“That only works if you can actually walk,” Yakov said dryly.

 Victor hobbled home feeling like a pressure cooker, like he was twelve years old again and wanting to be the best so badly that it was digging a hole in his stomach. His routine that he had created for this year sucked, it didn't have anything _new_ or  _exciting_  because he had used up everything he knew just trying to win.No one had ever told Victor that being the best was an end point, stop, period, that he would have to somehow carve out a new path if he wanted to continue experiencing the thrilling exhilaration of bursting everyone’s expectations like a flash bang. Of course, no one had ever been as good as Victor. He was an outlier and more than that, he was a pioneer, a scientist in how hard the sport of ice skating could be pushed.

Victor iced his knee in the gloom of the living room, leg thrown over the arm of the chair, rubbing his other hand over his face. He had inspected his knee in the bright light of the kitchen, and it was already purpling, blood rising to the surface, hot to the touch. Victor leaned his head back so that his hair spilled onto the floor, and he could see the streetlight through the window, bright against the dark-blue, velvet sky.

“What are you doing sitting in the dark?” his mother said, flipping on the light. This seemed to be the cue for Makkachin to run barking from Victor’s room in a beeline toward Victor.

“Wait. Makkachin!” Victor said, losing the ice when he put his hands up to protect his knee. Makkachin jumped onto Victor’s stomach, both ignoring her own, not inconsiderable, size and the fact that Victor had internal organs; her weight centered entirely on little poodle paws that were digging into probably his spleen. He tried to make her lie down by pushing on her back, but she refused, staring at him with loving brown eyes.

“Should I even ask?” his mother asked, eying his knee. Victor had now spent the majority of his life constantly having something-or-other wrapped with a bandage until even his mother had become immune; her only ongoing response was the stocking and re-stocking of the bathroom first-aid kit, which now took up the majority of the space underneath the sink.

“Not even a sprain,” Victor said, pasting on a smile, knowing it wasn’t one of his best but not caring; the purpose wasn’t to hide but to shut down any further questions.

His mother examined him, raising her eyebrows. “I’ll make you some soup,” she said finally.

“Makkachin also says she would like a biscuit,” Victor said, after placing an ear to Makkachin’s drooling muzzle. His mother rolled her eyes before heading into the kitchen.

Makkachin finally lay down, head tucked under Victor’s chin, Victor's hair falling over her face like a terrible wig; he tucked his hair behind his shoulders before running his fingers through it thoughtfully. Perhaps he had been thinking about his program the wrong way--it wasn't the routine that needed to change, it was him. “Good Makkachin,” Victor said, hugging Makkachin so tightly she squeaked, but she just snuggled closer.

#

Victor waited until the last possible moment to remove the beanie he had borrowed from Chris. He tossed it toward Yakov, who automatically grabbed for it, spluttering invectives. Victor ran a brush through his hair before swinging open the doors to the rink and striding toward the ice, hearing the first ripple of gasps from the people closest to him.

“What—an upset before Victor Nikiforov even begins his short program!” one of the announcers exclaimed.

“His hat appears to have been a disguise for a complete change in look,” the second announcer said. "I wonder if this also signals a change in the style of his program."

Victor glided to the center of the ice and ran his fingers through his newly shorn hair, knowing the cameras were on him. The audience roared with astonishment and disbelief before suddenly erupting into a wave of paroxysmal applause, and Victor felt an uncontrollable, shivering excitement like an electric current, his stomach tightening, his arms breaking out into goosebumps. 

As the music started and the audience finally began to hush, Victor thought to himself: I hope I can always surprise them.

  


	3. 22, 25, and 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild warning for puking in context of drunken shenanigans--if you're squeamish, just beware.

 22.

 When Victor first met Yuri, he was initially fooled by Yuri’s angelic exterior, having completely forgotten what it was like to be nine years old, a prodigy, and a little shit with a get-out-of-trouble face. Yuri was like an angry little robot that never got tired of a) being angry, and b) practicing. Yakov probably would have been over-joyed at coaching someone who actually listened to his instructions except Yuri’s go-to problem solver was generally some variation of “I will punch you.”

“Is he better or worse than me?” Victor said philosophically to Yakov, leaning against the barrier. Yuri whipped around the rink like a very efficient wind-up doll while everyone else tried to stay out of his way—only Mila seemed unaffected.

“No one is worse than you,” Yakov said reflexively. “Yuri, you keep traveling on that spin!”

“I know, I know!” Yuri yelled back, looking red-faced and ready to combust after an hour of practicing the same spin. The problem, really, was that the general paleness of Yuri’s face lent itself to flushing at every unfortunate opportunity.

“I’ll show you,” Victor said, hopping the barrier and skating to Yuri, who then, worryingly, seemed to lose all color in his face. “What?”

“I can do it,” Yuri said, frowning so hard that he was starting to look constipated.

“Well, I’ll just—” Victor started.

“I don’t need you to show me,” Yuri interrupted and then skated to the other side of the rink.

“What was that?” Victor said to Mila.

“He was doing that spin just fine yesterday,” Mila said dismissively and then smirked. “You know, when you weren’t here.”

Victor had to admit, his heart may have grown another size at that. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he called out across the rink, skating after Yuri with open arms. Yuri skated away faster.

“Break!” Yakov shouted, possibly to save Victor’s face from Yuri’s problem-solving skills.

When Victor left the rink to find lunch, he wasn’t surprised when he saw a Yuri-sized shadow trailing behind him. Even Georgi had started referring to Yuri as Victor’s “little duckling” and Georgi’s only hobbies included flirting poorly with girls, skating poorly, and brooding (generally excellently with points off for bouts of creepiness). At first, when Victor watched Yuri skate, Yuri fell so often that Victor had actually been under the impression that Yuri wasn’t very talented; when he finally confessed to Yakov that he had no idea why Yakov had taken on Yuri, Yakov laughed until it sounded like he was dying--or worse, crying--at which point Victor made a strategic retreat.

Victor cheerfully led Yuri all over St. Petersburg before finally taking pity and pretending to window-shop long enough for Yuri to edge closer and closer until Victor was able to casually turn his head, hands in his pockets, and say, “…you wanna get lunch?”

Yuri jumped like a cat dipped in water. “I wasn’t following you,” Yuri said, his blue-green eyes narrowing to slits in a glare that made Victor want to coo loudly in his face.

“What about Chinese food?” Victor offered, even though it wasn’t part of Lilia’s very detailed diet plan.

Yuri’s face turned increasingly red like mercury rising in a thermometer; Victor instinctively checked his ears for steam. “Why would I ever want to have lunch with you,” Yuri said, fists on his hips like a grade-A housewife. Yuri thought some more. “You’re stupid,” Yuri added before fleeing.

Victor ran a hand through his hair before checking his phone. Five missed calls from Yakov over the course of half an hour. Whoops.

When Victor returned, Yakov was fortunately occupied with yelling at Mila in the bench area. “What have I told you?” Yakov said, hands tugging at his hair. “What have I told everyone in this room?”

“There’s only us and Vitya here,” Mila pointed out. Victor paused in his now aborted plan to sneak back inside the rink before Yakov noticed. Victor stuck his tongue out at Mila for throwing him under the bus, which Mila ignored.

“We do not skate on broken toes!” Yakov shouted before saying, without even turning to look at Victor, “You are horrendously late. Five laps.”

Victor threw his arms up in the air, not even bothering to mention that it was winter, and went back outside to where Yuri was already huffing and puffing around the building. “This is all your fault,” Yuri gasped as he passed Victor.

“I thought you weren’t following me,” Victor said, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up!” Yuri hollered before turning the corner of the building.

Victor sighed and followed, mostly because he wanted to retain usage of the rink for the afternoon and only a little because Yuri’s angry pout was hilarious.

#

The GPF was being held in Quebec City, Canada, which oddly enough reminded Victor of St. Petersburg—the turreted buildings and the frozen canals and the snow that blanketed everything, muffling the city noise.

Chris hated it.

“It lacks mountains,” Chris complained in French. “Why is all this water here? What is the point?”  Victor had already heard all about how Switzerland was tastefully land-locked and be-mountained like the elegant lady that she was.

The table next to them gave Chris politely dirty looks at the maligning of their city.

Victor marveled at being put in the role of Rational Friend. “They speak French here,” Victor pointed out in English, not even touching the water argument.

“Peasant French,” Chris argued in French, earning an actual dirty look from the Canadian skater. What was his name again? Evan Wilson had thankfully retired a year ago, and this year’s Canadian was young and bright-eyed, like a baby squirrel. Yuri would hate him.

“It’s…rustic,” Victor said doubtfully, in French this time, which made the baby squirrel leave their table and join the US skater’s table.

“This bar is dead,” Chris observed sadly in French.

“You could dance on the table again,” Victor suggested. Last year’s GPF in Beijing had greatly enlightened Victor on the many sides of Christophe Giacommetti—all of which were tan, waxed, and muscular.

“I must not repeat myself,” Chris declared. “I’ll be like you. Surprise will be my goal.”

Victor drained his water—Yakov always restricted Victor’s alcohol intake the week before competition, and truthfully, Victor had never wanted to risk being hung-over. “We should head back,” Victor said, glancing at his watch.

Chris made a face. “So old, Victor. It’s only eight.”

“Sleep is important,” Victor said automatically and then was immediately appalled at himself for parroting Yakov.

Chris raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. “I’m going to stay here a while longer.”

“See you tomorrow then,” Victor said, ignoring Chris’ lingering pat on his ass.

Victor walked back to the hotel by the light of the street lamps, pulling his scarf up over his chin, and running through his routine in his head. Victor’s theme for last year had been transformation—although at this point, wasn’t every year transformation for Victor? But this year’s theme was “Stories” and fittingly, he had titled his commissioned music, “Scheherezade, Revisited.” His costume had little bells that he was very excited about, and he almost missed his long hair because he was sure Scheherezade herself had had long hair. But he wanted to experiment with femininity as a state of being, regardless of appearance, and to explore how he embodied femininity at this particular stage in his life, as opposed to earlier stages. Yuri had loudly proclaimed his hatred for Victor’s costume, but Mila told him she had caught Yuri attempting to try it on when he thought no one was looking.

Everyone close to Victor had been puzzled by his choice of theme—except his mother.

“Victor, can you bring me the watering can?” his mother had said, standing by the window with hands on her hips. Victor didn’t even know why his mother still bothered to attempt keeping plants alive after all the years of unintentional plant murder by way of neglect.

Victor didn’t realize this was a trap until he was close enough for her to put an arm around his shoulders, water can still dangling in his left hand. Victor pouted. Now he couldn’t run away or he’d look like a terrible son, the harpy.

“You know, Vitenka,” his mother started. Victor bleakly wondered what kind of emotionally fraught conversation his mother wanted to have this time. She glanced up at him through her eyelashes—Victor had completely fulfilled his doctor’s prediction in the height department—and smoothed his hair with her other hand. “If you ever get tired of skating,” she said slowly and then like driving a knife into flesh, “You can quit, you know.”

Completely trapped in his mother’s arms, Victor could only stare at her in shock.

“I’m not saying you are,” his mother continued, taking her hand away from his hair but tightening her grip on his shoulders. “I only wanted to remind you.” His mother took the watering can from him, which Victor had completely forgotten about, before giving Victor a sideways glance. “Your father can take care of himself.”

“I’m not doing this for him,” Victor said numbly. His father had gone through treatment for three years before he was finally declared to be in remission.

“Good,” his mother said and finally let go of him. Victor had fled to Makkachin, burying himself under her stomach until she lay on his back, nosing his neck.

Now Victor was in Canada, his mother was in Moscow for business, and his father was out in the middle of nowhere in Russian countryside with his new family. Victor watched groups of people pile into taxis, laughing, possibly drunk. When lights from billboards flashed, he could see his breath fog in the air; the wind bit at his face and ears. “Hey, cutie,” said a woman on the corner. She looked happy and flushed standing with her friends, even though her dress hardly went to the middle of her thighs and she must have been freezing.

Victor winked at her and kept going—even if he didn’t have the GPF tomorrow, he had grown bored with one-night stands. Most recently, Yuri had broken into Victor’s apartment (armed with Yakov’s spare key and the grim intention of forcing Victor to train him, Victor later found out) at the same time that Victor’s date, Ilya, had taken it upon himself to make breakfast. Victor had finally stumbled into the kitchen to find Yuri eating an egg and studiously glaring at Ilya, who was sitting across from Yuri and gingerly drinking orange juice, as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Victor had stared, questions adding up, before shrugging and sitting to watch Yuri interrogate Ilya into submission.

“And are you willing to marry Victor so he can keep his honor?” Yuri had finally demanded. Ilya turned pale and looked at Victor, who tried to look as virginal and wounded as possible. When Ilya politely high-tailed it out of there, Yuri took his orange juice. “He was a nice man who didn’t deserve that,” Victor remarked, resting his chin in his hand. Yuri continued to smugly eat Ilya’s untouched food.

 Victor wondered if he really was getting old, choosing to spend time training with Yuri rather than on a date. It wasn’t that one-night stands weren't pleasurable or fun, they had just become—forgettable. Passionless. Unsurprising. Victor entered the warmth of the hotel, his face immediately thawing, and took the elevator to his room. He perfunctorily texted his mother, not expecting an answer, before falling into bed.

#

“And it is now time for Victor Nikiforov’s freeskate!” the announcer said, as Victor glided onto the ice, extending a hand to the audience. The bells on his costume jingled pleasingly.

“He will be skating to “Scheherezade, Revisted,” the announcer continued. The audience cheered louder, and Victor could see signs all over the stadium with his name on them; a woman with a USA flag had created a smaller sign just for him, and she was far from the only one.

Victor twined himself into his starting position, hand sweeping the ice, hair falling forward. He knew it would look romantic and interesting from afar, even as he fought snot dripping out of his nose from the angle.

The music started, and he whipped upward, hair flashing behind him, as he dipped almost immediately into his first triple, which no one would expect. Scheherezade was a woman who told stories for her life, who had to constantly surprise and intrigue, all while never breaking a sweat—was it any wonder Victor was drawn to her? He had wondered—had she not felt even the tiniest thrill outside of survival when she was successful in her surprises? Had she ever felt a luxurious adrenaline rush that washed down her spine and made her toes curl, even as relief turned her stomach to water that she had survived another night?

Victor had choreographed the first half of his routine to be frenetic, jump-heavy, to push his endurance to the limit, before a sudden melancholic slowing of movement: graceful footwork melting into spins, a search for rest. As soon as the audience became invested in this downturn, Victor picked up the pace. He gathered himself for one last jump combination—risky in terms of Victor’s tendency toward exhaustion in the second half—that lead straight into a spin combination. He spun fast like a top, gaining more and more speed as he switched positions, before abruptly stopping himself on the last beat of the music.

Victor could hear the roar of the crowd even through his unsettled inner ear, and he fought vertigo and faint nausea to throw his arms to the crowd. His skin prickled with sweat and goosebumps, and he shivered with full-body joy that wanted to escape the confines of his skin—the kind of joy that was too big for him, too big for anyone. He had walked the tight rope on knifed edges and now not three, not four, but five little sweepers were required to pick up all of the stuffed animals and flowers.

Victor stepped off the ice and would have immediately stumbled from exhilaration and residual dizziness except for Yakov’s strong arm. “Easy, Vitya,” Yakov said, almost gently.

“I love skating,” Victor confided to Yakov.

“I couldn’t tell,” Yakov said dryly but didn’t let Victor miss the bench when he tried to sit down.

No one was surprised when Victor won gold, but even Yakov gaped very mildly when Victor set a new world record for men’s single’s freeskate.

#

Victor had to be present for yet more interviews before the banquet, which was made more bearable by the presence of Chris, who had won silver. Chris’ theme was beauty, and he had performed elaborately to something baroque, his costume a gorgeous, glittering gold. It had quickly become less gorgeous when Chris stayed over in Victor’s room, and Victor found gold sequins in his tea, his bed, and his underwear.

Chris woke up from his nap in the middle of Victor’s getting-ready routine, for apparently the sole reason of being a creep and watching from the doorway. Victor had an enormously involved skincare routine, when he actually had the time to employ it—and before major competitions and sponsor-meetings, he made time. Chris made fun of him for exactly five seconds before appropriating Victor’s face creams for himself. Victor and Chris then proceeded to engage in an elaborate slap-fight that ended in shaving cream all over the floor.

“You seem like you’re glowing!” a reporter enthusiastically told Chris.

Chris shrugged modestly, blinking wide eyes. “It’s your lovely smile,” he told her.

“It’s my face creams,” Victor said, giving a wide smile. “Without them, he looks like the backside of a rhinoceros.” The reporter tittered while Chris surreptitiously dug his fingers into Victor’s side, who had to fight not to laugh uncontrollably. Being ticklish was a hard-knock life, especially since Yuri had discovered it and then promptly announced it to everyone in earshot.

Yakov grimly turned his arms into an X-sign in the back of the crowd, and Victor made a mental note to avoid Yakov for twenty minutes until someone else from the team did something dubious and distracted him.

“What will you do to top yourself next year, Victor?” the reporter said.

Victor shrugged one shoulder in a way that he knew was charming. “I suppose you will have to stick around and find out,” he said, looking at her from under her eyelashes. She turned bright red.

“You’re going to give her an aneurysm,” Chris whispered in his ear.

“You’re just jealous,” Victor whispered back, gripping Chris’ hand, thwarting him in advance.

Victor allocated the first half of the banquet to business before searching for Chris. Victor frowned—it should be easy to spot someone who had worn a gaudy gold suit—and waited until the first person had left for propriety’s sake before disappearing back up to his room. He punched in a text to Chris before opening the door and within the first few steps, Victor got a strong whiff of vanilla before stopping in his tracks when he saw the bed. Candles dotted the nightstand and the desk, red roses were in the vase, and soft classical music played.

Chris posed on the bed, dressed in nothing but red ribbon, a huge red bow square on his dick.

“It’s your birthday,” Chris purred. “Care to unwrap your present?”

“…Eh, okay,” Victor said, shrugging, and crawled into the bed, shedding clothes as he went.

Chris spread his legs invitingly, and Victor sat up on his knees, tapping an index finger against his mouth. “Now where should I start,” he mused, ignoring Chris’ increasingly obvious bids for attention, his ass lifting off the bedspread.

“Victor,” Chris groaned, probably at least half in irritation, but Victor chose to ignore that in favor of leaning over Chris to press a chaste kiss to his soft mouth. “Stop teasing me,” Chris said against Victor’s lips.

“I just walked in the room thirty seconds ago,” Victor pointed out, settling comfortably onto his stomach, where he could feel Chris’ dick twitch.

“Your lips are chapped,” Chris whined.

“You’re such a baby,” Victor said and nipped a collarbone before gently sucking at the line of his throat. Chris’ hand slid down Victor’s neck to the top of his spine, so intimate and warm that Victor shivered.

“Are you cold?” Chris whispered.

Victor shook his head and hid his face in Chris’ neck, breathing in his cologne—something French and expensive, Victor hadn’t looked closely at the bottle that now sat next to his hotel-issue tooth brush. Chris wrapped his other arm tight around Victor’s shoulders. Something in the pit of Victor’s stomach finally unwound, and Victor melted into the familiar lines of Chris’ body. “Now that you’re reaching old age,” Chris began. “I hope your stamina isn’t suffering.”

Victor pinched his side, and Chris yelped.

“That’s it,” Chris said, flipping Victor over onto his back. “It’s time to take matters into my own hands.”

“These matters?” Victor said innocently, grinding pointedly against Chris’ thigh.

“More like these,” Chris said, ominously raising his hands before tickling Victor mercilessly.

“I was—g-going to unwrap you with my t-teeth,” Victor choked out, trying to stop the onslaught.

“Took too long, lost your chance,” Chris sang out and when Victor was just about ready to roll onto the floor for mercy, Chris licked into his mouth, tasting like Victor’s tea and hotel chocolate, which Chris had probably been stuffing two at a time into his mouth while he waited. 

When they were both panting, Chris pulled away and whispered, “Now what was that about unwrapping me with your mouth?”

“Let me show you,” Victor said, voice low, and did.

#         

It was half past one in the morning and they had wrapped the sheets around themselves so they could hang half outside the window and smoke, wintery air ruffling their hair, when Chris said, half-wistful, “I don’t want to go home yet.”

Victor thought about this, how Chris had been within half a point of Victor’s short program, how Victor had soared breathlessly high above everyone’s expectations, and he inhaled until the end of his cigarette burned orange in the dark. “Where would you want to go?”

Victor felt Chris shrug under his arm, which was slung over Chris’ shoulder. “I don’t know. Belgium.”

“You’re going to get fat eating all that chocolate,” Victor remarked.

“I’ll beat you anyway,” Chris said cheerfully.

Victor finished his cigarette, took another one from Chris’ pack and lit it off Chris’ cigarette.

“Let’s go,” Victor said suddenly.

“What?” Chris said uncomprehendingly.

“Why stop at Belgium anyway?” Victor continued. “I want to go to Paris.”

“And Amsterdam,” Chris sighed and took a drag of his cigarette before declaring, “I like the way you think.”

Victor and Chris stopped in Iceland first for two days, taking advantage of the airline’s very nice offer to escort any tourist around the local places. Victor had decided it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission and had left without telling Yakov. Between courses of whale meat, blood pudding, and something that they later found out was sour ram’s testicles (which had made Chris shrug philosophically), Victor had texted many sad emojis before finally swearing on Makkachin’s life, his own life, and Yuri’s young, impressionable life, that Victor would not do anything that would lose him any body parts and/or his reputation.

After Iceland, they stayed only a day in Paris, for the shopping and taking of selfies, posing like can can girls in front of the Moulin Rouge. They took the train to build up their tolerance in Berlin after little alcohol during their months in training. Chris handed Victor cheap fishnets and faux-leather shorts and Victor Chris' make-up and his own before leaving the charmingly shitty hostel, arm-in-arm. Chris was surprisingly organized in the order of the clubs they visited, and Victor soon saw the method in the madness when the drink prices got cheaper and cheaper throughout the night—no use accidentally over-doing it too early in the night, especially since they were both now embarrassing lightweights.

They dragged their aching heads to Belgium and soothed their hang-overs with waffles and then more waffles. “I think this is the first chocolate I’ve had in a year,” Victor said reverently, letting Chris feed him another truffle.

“It’s Belgium,” Chris said soothingly, thumbing the corner of Victor’s mouth. “If you don’t eat chocolate here, the embassy will find out and be horribly offended.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we,” Victor responded and nipped Chris’ fingers for another chocolate.

They did an about-face on the edges of Luxemburg (Victor argued that Luxemburg was really all edges due to smallness, and Chris had admonished him for hurting Luxemburg’s feelings before leering), having gone the wrong direction, before finally achieving their destination in Amsterdam. Neither of them had ever been to Amsterdam before, so they went out with a group of people from their hostel and became increasingly drunk and high and full of cheese.

“I love everything,” Victor declared to Chris, in French, in one coffeeshop. Victor had kissed six separate people and one statue, eaten at least two wheels of cheese, gained a dog temporarily before the exasperated owner took the dog away, and lost half of the clothing he had started off with while also somehow picking up three hot pink boas. “Except Pierre’s hat, it makes him look like he has a growth on the side of his head.”

Pierre shot him a very dirty look.

“Pierre speaks French,” Victor realized. He shoved Chris’ head and then his fingers turned to petting Chris’ hair because Chris’ hair was always surprisingly soft. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I told you three separate times,” Chris said sleepily, leaning his cheek into his palm.

“It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” Sophie, Pierre’s girlfriend, told Victor, patting his cheek. She leaned down and whispered, “It really does look like a growth though. The hat will go mysteriously missing, I’m sure.” She winked.

Pierre’s hat was missing by the next bar, and then Victor really did love everything.

This ended in the small hours of the morning at the hostel when Victor was puking up his guts. He thought perhaps the amorphous red thing was his kidney and mourned its loss.

“If only you still had long hair for me to hold back,” Chris sighed, rubbing his back through his shirt. Victor threw up again in response.

“I’m going to die,” Victor moaned, actually perilously close to tears. He had felt worse last year when he broke his arm, he really had, but the lining of his stomach felt like it consisted of battery acid and he was hot and nauseatingly dizzy and—Chris rolled up the hem of Victor’s shirt, which immediately made Victor feel less suffocatingly over-heated, and rested a cool hand on his back. Victor pressed minutely back into it, grounding himself.

“You’re going to be fine,” Chris told him. “Pierre’s doing the same thing for Sophie.” Chris paused. “And she gave his hat away to a pigeon. That’s true love.”

“Sophie what?” Pierre said in the next stall over. “You told me you didn’t know what happened to it!”

Sophie said something that sounded like, “Leave me here to die,” but also could have been, “No more pie.”

Pierre sighed. “Oh, Sophie.”

“Why aren’t you sick,” Victor muttered, resting his sweaty forehead on his forearm.

“You had more to drink, Vitya,” Chris reminded him.

“Oh god, you sound like Yakov,” Victor said and his body tried to heave, but it didn’t have anything left.

When Victor’s stomach finally stopped roiling, he brushed his teeth several times, washed his face, and drank all the glasses of water Chris foisted on him. They piled in together in Victor’s bunk like puppies, Chris on the outside. They breathed in silence, in the dark, until Chris said stickily in his ear, “I’m glad you love everything." He sloppily kissed Victor's hair. “Sometimes I worry.”

“I don’t love alcohol,” Victor muttered.

“It doesn’t love you either,” Chris said sadly.

In the morning, Victor had to piss so long that he started timing it, just in case it broke a world record. “Can you imagine?” Victor said, bouncing back into the room, where Chris was groaning awake. “I could have two world records: one for skating and one for pissing.”

“How are you so chipper after you were the one hanging over the toilet bowl for two hours?” Chris said, smashing the heels of his hands into his eyeballs.

“You didn’t drink any water,” Victor said logically.

“Goodbye cruel world,” Chris said, curling up into the fetal position. Victor fetched water and pain-killers and when he had finally coaxed Chris into a semi-human shape, he went and said their goodbyes to Sophie.

“Heading home?” Sophie said, leaning back into Pierre.

“Most likely,” Victor agreed before smirking at Pierre. “I have a present for you.”

“Oh no,” Pierre said gloomily.

“Don’t be rude,” Sophie said, and Pierre looked at her disbelievingly.

“A new hat!” Victor announced and revealed the deerstalker with a flourish.

Pierre raised an eyebrow and didn’t take it.

“Don’t you like it?” Victor said, sticking out his bottom lip. “It’s an apology for my words last night.”

“You also insulted my pants, my taste in beer, and my great-great grandmother twice removed,” Pierre said, unimpressed.

“As I cannot buy you a new great-great grandmother twice removed,” Victor said seriously, “please accept this hat in lieu of a new family member.”

Pierre rubbed a hand over his face before taking the hat.

“Stay in touch,” Victor said brightly.

“We will,” Sophie said, forcing the hat on Pierre’s head. Victor and Chris had given fake names, but had been increasingly inconsistent throughout the night (in all fairness, Chris had eventually begun calling Victor pastry names by way of endearment and then made those endearments dirtier and dirtier until even Sophie was blushing).

Victor dropped Chris off in Switzerland before returning to Russia, to St. Petersburg, where everyone spoke Russian and Makkachin greeted him at the door. Victor felt his heart constrict at the sight of his own couch, his own bed, his own shower where he didn’t have to wear shoes to protect against foot fungus and never ran out of hot water. He let Makkachin come in with him and washed away the travel grime, the dried sweat, the gritty exhaustion. The familiarity of his room was gentle, soothing, after spending a week feeling like a different person, doing what other people do. His body ached, his heart ached, bursting with sadness and relief and a sharp sort of happiness.

Victor collapsed on his bed, Makkachin rolling damply against his side, already imagining the choreography for next year. 

* * *

* * *

25.

Victor slowly dressed himself in his Winter Olympics costume: a very stylized version of the Russian soldier uniform from the 1800’s. Gold epaulets, scarlet jacket, black pants with thin gold strips down the sides. None of the other skaters on the Russian team had been able to afford to come, but they had pooled their money and sent a beautiful floral arrangement—Mila had written, “Best of luck, although you won’t need it! Kick ass and take names.” If Victor squinted, he could see Yuri’s tiny signature at the bottom of the card.

Victor wandered to the main area in Nike slip-ons, which seemed delightfully anachronistic, where Yakov immediately accosted him. “Where’s your mother?” he said.

“I thought she was here,” Victor said, checking Yakov’s watch.

“Well, I can’t find her,” Yakov said, frowning more than usual. “Have you called her?”

Victor shrugged. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” he said.

Yakov stared at him before sighing, which made Victor start to edge away. “Vitya,” he said, and casually but firmly grasped Victor’s wrist. Victor wriggled his fingers feebly in protest. “This is important. Your mother should be here.”

“She _is_ here,” Victor hedged. Technically, she was in Sochi. Somewhere.

“I don’t mean in the city, I mean here, in this rink,” Yakov said, starting to sound growly.

“Last time I checked, she was eating with Alexander,” Victor said, putting up his hands--one of them still cuffed in Yakov's hand--in a peace gesture. His mother had re-married three years ago after two years of dating; once his mother and Alexander had become serious, Victor had moved out, which had seemed to cause a shift in the tectonics of his relationship with his mother. Or perhaps, in rare moments, he wondered if it had only catalyzed pre-existing hair-line fractures of being too busy for each other. It’s not that they didn’t talk or have lunch at least a couple times a month but—now he wasn’t the first person she let know when she was away for business, and he had to let her know in advance when he wanted to stay multiple days at the house.

“Call her,” Yakov ordered, finally letting go of Victor. Victor wanted to petulantly tell Yakov to call her instead if it was so important to him. His mother had hardly ever come to any of his competitions, why break the pattern now?

Victor was in the middle of putting on his skates under Yakov’s watchful eye when his mother hurried up to him, Alexander in tow. “I’m sorry, Vitya,” she said breathlessly, “there was no reception when you called.”

“Hi, Mama,” he said, giving her a bland smile. She leaned in to give him a tight hug; he still couldn’t get used to the new perfume brand she had started wearing, but the scent of cigarettes was the same.

“The Olympics, huh,” she said, pulling back, her grin turning wicked. “Who would ever have thought a roller-blading party would lead to this? Anya’s kicking herself for not being able to be here.”

“She just wants to take all the credit,” Victor said, smile softening.

“Damn straight,” she said before hugging him again. “We should go get our seats.”

“Good luck, Victor,” Alexander offered.

After they had hurried away, Yakov said, eyes narrowed, “He doesn't seem like a bad guy.”

“He treats her well,” Victor said, fiddling with his laces. “She’s happy.”

Yakov turned a speculative eye on Victor but said nothing further until Victor was called to the ice. “You have everyone’s support behind you,” Yakov said seriously, showing Victor a list of texts from the skaters in St. Petersburg and one from Chris; Yakov had a no technology rule the day of competitions to minimize any sudden emotional upsets. 

Victor grinned and kissed Yakov on the cheek as quick as he could before Yakov could realize what had happened. “Victor!” Yakov bellowed as Victor escaped onto the ice.

“Victor Nikiforov will be skating to a selection from Gustav Mahler’s second symphony,” the announcer said.

Victor started with feet planted apart, staring straight ahead. The music started, and he played the part of a wind-up soldier, movements jerky and uncoordinated before slowly smoothing out into a graceful sadness as the war became lost: comrades fallen, no further word from the higher-ups, rations running low.  At the height of helplessness, he turned into a Biellmann spin, chest wide-open, heart exposed, and heard the crowd gasp. Victor ended his routine on one knee, other leg extended behind him, arms and face raised in supplication to the heavens.

The crowd was completely silent as he glided off the ice and then the first few people started to clap until finally, there was thunderous, echoing applause. “That was perfect,” Yakov said in his ear, voice rough, as they waited for his scores. When Victor looked at his face, he was wearing his usual scowl, although his eyes were damp. Victor couldn’t restrain a fond smile.

Victor was awarded gold on the podium in the closing medal ceremony. He knew the skaters who won silver and bronze in passing from earlier in the season, and they were 16 and 18, respectively. The skaters seemed to get younger and younger every year. Victor himself only seemed to grow older. Chris hadn’t made the cut for Switzerland due to an unfortunately timed knee injury, and along with Chris' ever-increasing series of boyfriends, they hadn't seen each other very much this year. Victor smiled for pictures, scanning the room. There was no one here he knew.

It was just Victor at the top, alone.

* * *

* * *

27.

It’s the GPF banquet again. Mila is charming and genteel, as usual, except in the brief moments when Victor passes by and she says something quickly horrible before returning to smiling at sponsors. Georgi is, of course, feverishly texting the latest poor girl who has agreed to date him. Yakov hasn’t seen him yet, which Victor is hoping to keep that way; he doesn’t want to talk to sponsors, and he doesn't need to at this point in his career. Chris will circle back around to him once he’s finished speaking with his coach. Chris has just started dating someone new, and Victor actually likes him; this one hasn’t tried to make Chris get rid of his cat or cheated on him or eaten all of his precious Belgian chocolates. Yuri takes a sip of Victor’s champagne every time they cross paths, and Victor ruffles his hair each time in retaliation.

Now Victor leans against the wall, champagne in hand and lower in meniscus due to Yuri’s interference, and feels calcification start to set in. He checks his phone surreptitiously to see how much time is left before he can politely slip away when a figure with a wobbly gait catches his eye.

The Japanese guy he had thought was a fan from afar (Victor refuses to wear his new glasses point-blank) is actually a skater…? He snaps a few photos, circling closer and closer without realizing it, almost running into Yuri who was apparently in a dance-off with this guy.

This guy. He’s like a force of nature, all shiver-inducing smiles and flexibility--or no, he’s like the sun, a supernova, and the magnetism of his orbit is incredible, pulling people in like planets. When Victor himself gets drawn in, all bets seem to be off.

“Victor! Stop this!” he vaguely hears Yakov shout from somewhere in the crowd of on-lookers, but Victor doesn’t stop, it’s too much fun, it’s so—surprising.

After the earnest plea for Victor to be his coach but before the pole-dancing, Victor turns to Chris. “Who is that?” Victor says, embarrassingly breathless, his body thrumming with fizzy happiness.

“Hm?” Chris says, eyes widening. “That’s Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Yuuri Katsuki, huh,” Victor says, flush deepening, his eyes following Yuuri as he moves, loose-limbed and confident, across the room to a new dance partner.

 He can still feel the strength and warmth of Yuuri’s hands in his.

 

END

 


End file.
